Everything has changed. Gone are the comfy sofas, worn-out chintz armchairs, the fireguard. Gone are the shelves lined with books on art, travel, photography, the battered old TV in the corner. Gone are the original fifties wooden sideboards, the bright curtains and cushions that were so in vogue when they bought the house which have lasted, most of them, al these years. Al gone, the contents of the ground floor either moved upstairs for today or taken away to the local auction house or up to London.
The curtain rail, even, has been unscrewed. The French windows, where Jay and I would sit on rainy days betting on raindrops racing down the glass, are closed and the cushions on the window seats removed. The room is white, devoid of any furniture apart from dining chairs placed strategical y around it, and Granny’s paintings.
They line the wal s of the big room, fifteen or so, and below some of them are sketches. Above the fireplace is ‘Summercove at Sunset, 1963’, and I stare at it, having never seen it in the flesh before.
‘Where did they find this?’ I ask. ‘It was in her studio,’ Archie replies. ‘She never showed it to anyone. That, and – this was there too.’ He points, and I swivel round. Next to the door, almost hidden in its shadow, is an oil painting of a girl, a girl I know very wel now.
‘Cecily Frowning, 1963’
It’s the painting. I wonder whether Arvind stil has the sketch. I hope so. She is sitting on a stool, watching the painter, her expression watchful yet slightly cross. She is wearing a pale blue cotton sundress, which sets off her dark hair and skin beautiful y. One leg is tucked under the other, one hand holding the heel. She looks rather bored. I stand stil and stare at it.
‘My God,’ I say. ‘That’s – it.’
‘I’m going to find Louisa,’ Archie says, looking at his watch, and he strides out. The door bangs behind him. We three are alone in the echoing room.
I turn to look at Mum. ‘She said she hated being painted, didn’t she?’
‘Absolutely.’ Mum nods. She narrows her eyes. ‘It’s rather clever. The way Mummy got that absolutely right.’
We stare at it together, neither acknowledging that we’re talking about the diary.
‘I wondered what happened to that painting,’ I said.
My mother moves closer towards it and peers. ‘Goodness,’ she says. ‘You do look so like her, Natasha.’
‘She does,’ says a voice beside us, and I remember Arvind is here, too.
I do not move; I know that if I say the wrong thing, I could ruin everything. But I know now is the moment. This might be the only chance I get.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I don’t use her name, or cal her Mum, but she turns to me, slowly. ‘Why did you take the rest of the diary? Why didn’t you tel anyone about it, about the truth? Why didn’t you tel me?’
She looks at Arvind, then back at me. She folds her arms. ‘Oh, darling, it’s complicated.’
‘I know it is,’ I perservere. I real y want her to give me answers. She can’t keep doing this. ‘Just tel me why though.’
She shrugs, and looks at her father again. He nods. ‘Please, Miranda. Enlighten me.’ He gives a little gesture, as if to say, Go ahead.
‘I knew Cec was writing a diary,’ she says, in a rush. Her fingers fiddle with the knotted tassels of her scarf. ‘Al that summer. She wouldn’t stop bloody going on about it. “I’m putting you in my diary if you don’t stop being so mean to me,”’ Mum says, in a childish voice.
‘Did you know about her and Guy? Is that why you sent the diary to him?’ I wish it al felt as though it was fal ing into place, but it doesn’t.
She blushes slowly. ‘I think I always knew, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not important, not at the moment. He had to have it though, I had to tel him. Anyway. I knew she’d written the diary so it had to be somewhere. I didn’t think Mummy would throw it away. She wouldn’t have done.
Couldn’t do it. So I had to find it. Because I knew – the day she died . . . she’d found out – about what she’d found out about—‘ Her eyes are burning into mine, imploringly. ‘I knew, you see.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve read it, Mum.’
‘Wel , we went for a walk. She says that. We were both upset – so tired. You have no idea what it was like. We had a row about what to do next. I said we should expose Mummy. Tel Daddy. She said absolutely not.’ She turns suddenly to Arvind. ‘Dad – oh, shit. I shouldn’t have . . .’ She trails off, clamping her lips together. ‘Forget it.’
‘Please,’ Arvind says. ‘Don’t protect me, my dear. I know what happened.’
I must be imagining it, but it seems his tone is softer, kinder, for a moment, and the parent he could have been is apparent for a split second.
‘You do?’ Mum says. She runs her fingers along the mantel-piece, as if checking for dirt. ‘I never knew. Always, I thought I was the only one.
And I couldn’t tel . Look, look at us,’ she says, almost hysterical y. She waves her arm round the empty white room. ‘Look at the – what this did to us, to our family. I –
‘Mum—’ I go over to her, put my arm on her shoulder. ‘Don’t.’ Someone drops something in the kitchen, I think it must be metal. It clatters loudly, recal ing us to the present. I look at her. ‘What happened? Please tel me.’
Mum glances at Arvind, and at me, and speaks softly, urgently.
‘We fought. Not physical y. I mean we shouted at each other. Oh, God. I – oh, she made me so angry! But I would never have hurt her. We were young, you know how sisters fight.
We both had tempers, you know . . . I wanted to tel Dad about Mummy.’ She looks again at Arvind and then carries on. ‘I – I wasn’t getting on with her. I don’t know if I ever did, real y. I always felt she didn’t like me.’ She smiles. ‘Always. What a strange thing to say about your mother. Isn’t it?’
